harden in his veins, and slowly he raised the gun, aiming right at Henry Parker’s heart.
“John Fredrickson is dead,” Parker said. “But not because of me.”
“Fuck this shit,” Denton said, stepping forward, his gun raised, as well. “He killed John. Look at his eyes, he knows he did. If anyone deserves to die, Joe…”
Mauser looked into Parker’s eyes, the first time he’d seen them up close since St. Louis. Since Shelton Barnes.
That photo…
And somewhere, deep inside Henry Parker’s eyes, Joe Mauser saw the one thing he never thought he’d see.
Truth.
“Tell me what happened,” Joe said. “And don’t leave a thing out. And if I think you’re lying to me, I won’t think twice about shooting you in the face.”
Parker took a deep breath and spoke.
“It starts with Michael DiForio and Jimmy Saviano,” Henry said.
Mauser interjected. “Everyone knows about their war. It’s been brewing for years and nothing’s ever happened.”
“Until now,” Henry said. “Michael DiForio owns a good chunk of real estate in the city. More specifically, he owns the building at 2937 Broadway. Where John Fredrickson was killed.”
Parker took a breath, continued.
“DiForio figured an easy way to help his business, while exposing himself to limited liability, was to use indentured servants, couriers, to run his errands. Men without ties, without hope. If these couriers had records, and they were arrested or killed, the finger would point right back at them alone. No questions would be asked.”
A faint breeze drifted through the room, sending a shiver down Mauser’s spine.
“Come on, Joe, forget this kid, let’s take him now.” Mauser looked at Denton, who shut his mouth. He felt light-headed, his world turning upside down.
Nodding at Parker, Joe said, “Go on.”
“Michael DiForio’s associates would reach out to recent parolees. Men with no money and no job. They were offered housing on the cheap in exchange for their services. Picking up payments, running drugs, the works. And in return they got to stay out of crummy halfway homes and didn’t have to bag groceries for a living.” Parker swallowed. “Luis Guzman was one of those men. In fact, over the last five years, at least ten ex-convicts have lived in that very building, getting huge rent discounts in exchange for their-” Parker paused “-services.”
“I’m still not seeing it, Joe,” Denton said. “The fucking NYPD’s going to be here any minute and we’re fucking around with…”
“Shut the fuck up!” Mauser yelled. “Shut the fuck up! This is about my goddamn family!”
Denton looked like he’d been punched in the gut. He stepped back. Parker, clearly unnerved, tried to collect himself, his voice shaky.
“Another man DiForio employed was a photographer named Hans Gustofson. DiForio paid Gustofson to take some very incriminating photographs of very important people.
Photographs of cops and government officials. Just like the one he took of Officer Fredrickson.”
“John,” Mauser said. Parker nodded.
“Gustofson compiled a large album of these photos over the past two decades. They could have been used for any number of reasons-to blackmail city politicians, to gain better control over the cops already in his pocket, to find out which policemen were double-dipping and working for Saviano as well. Luis Guzman was a middleman. He was supposed to collect the photos from Gustofson and hold them for Fredrickson, who would deliver directly to DiForio. But the photos never made it to Luis Guzman.”
“Why not?” Mauser asked. He could feel sweat pouring down his skull, warm and sticky.
“Hans Gustofson was killed before he could deliver the photos. I know this because I found the body. And whoever killed Gustofson wanted those photos, but he’d hidden them well.”
“Jesus,” Mauser said.
“Unbelievable,” Denton added.
“Luis Guzman never received them because Gustofson was dead. Fredrickson, assuming Guzman was holding them for his own personal gain-possibly to resell to Saviano-attempted to beat it out of him. That’s when I came in.”
“You and John,” Mauser said. “You killed him.”
“Officer Fredrickson is dead,” Parker said, his voice like meat through a grinder. “But I didn’t kill him. I tried to stop him from hurting the Guzmans, and somewhere in the struggle his gun went off. But I didn’t pull the trigger. And if you talk to the Guzmans, really talk to them, they’ll corroborate my story.”
Mauser said, “And this photo album, where is it now?”
“It’s safe, along with the negatives,” Parker said. “I don’t want it to get into the wrong hands any more than you do. But I can put the pieces together and help make things right. All I want in exchange is my life back.”
“That’s not possible,” Mauser said. “There’s a whole city wants you dead.”
“The city doesn’t know the whole story.” He paused. “What do you want?” Parker asked. Mauser lowered his head, his shadow cast long across the wall. Then he looked up.
“I want justice for my brother. I want whoever’s responsible to pay.”
“I want that, too,” Henry said. “And I can help.”
Parker took a step forward, Mauser watching, but then he heard it. A slight sound. The fluttering of wings.
The birds had been disturbed again.
Somebody was coming up the stairs.
“Get back,” Mauser said urgently, shoving Parker toward the window. He and Denton whipped around and aimed their guns at the door, crouching to create a smaller target.
Soft footsteps, but Mauser could hear them clearly. More than one. More than two. At least three people were approaching. Maybe more.
Mauser felt the Glock in his hands, a trivial reassurance of protection. He looked quickly at Denton, nodded. Then a tremendous explosion shattered the silence, then another, and another. The room lit up like a firecracker had gone off, thunder echoing through the building, tortured screams from below.
“Jesus Christ!” Mauser yelled. “What the fuck is that?”
Another explosion rocked the building, and then there was silence. The police didn’t fire those shots, Mauser thought. They were shotgun blasts. Four in total. And from the intervals, it sounded like one person had fired them. Then Joe heard it.
Footsteps coming up the stairs. Just one set now, deliberate. He saw Parker, fear etched on his face, backed into the corner.
A shadow crept into the doorframe. Mauser saw the barrel of the gun before he saw the man.
As he entered the room, Joe Mauser recognized his face.
Shelton Barnes.
The man’s pants and shirt were dark black, but in the moonlight Mauser could see red, like a dozen paintballs had exploded on his chest. Other men’s blood. Then Barnes spoke, his voice even.
“All I want is Parker,” Barnes said, his shotgun at chest level. “For Anne.”
Mauser looked at Denton, then back at Barnes. Joe stood up, gun outstretched.
“You’ll get nothing and like it, Barnes,” Mauser said. “Now drop the fucking weapon.”
Then Denton stood up, his eyes locked with Barnes. Mauser felt a shiver sweep down his spine as a cold grin spread across his partner’s face. A tremor swept through Joe’s body as a hard truth entered his brain, one moment too late.
“They say you gotta make your own luck,” Denton said, before pumping three bullets into Mauser’s chest.
41
